


Return to the Snow Covered Ground

by boffinhatwithapipeYuekagami



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:23:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boffinhatwithapipeYuekagami/pseuds/boffinhatwithapipeYuekagami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is solely base on Alone on the Water by Madlorrie. <br/>Sorry if I sort of ripped it but i swear to my own Sherlock's hat, I am just inspired by it. And also a wee bit of Third Star.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return to the Snow Covered Ground

Return to the Snow Covered Ground

After great pain a formal feeling comes--  
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;  
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?  
And yesterday--or centuries before?

The feet, mechanical, go round  
A wooden way  
Of ground, or air, or ought,  
Regardless grown,  
A quartz contentment, like a stone.

This is the hour of lead  
Remembered if outlived,  
As freezing persons recollect the snow--  
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

-After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes by Emily Dickinson

 

The world wouldn’t stop turning when someone die. It would continue to turn and turn until the end of time. Many people carried on to their lives. Most of them moved on to their paths after the tragedy of death. It was like nothing happened. Nothing was lost. 

I thought it would be my case too. I was wrong. I didn’t move on. I didn’t. 

I still missed him. 

It wasn’t rare for me to have this feeling of emptiness. In fact, through the tragedies in my life, I finally realized that somehow pain had been so comfortable with me that it lingered on my every breath. 

I was standing in front of his grave. I was wearing a black suit with a match black tie. I looked at the flowers in front of it. The fresh flowers from the flower shop were a great contrast to the black epitaph it was perching on. It was making it difficult to look away.

I moved with ease but with the great agony. I wasn’t limping anymore. The pain was still there but it was different this time. It wasn’t inside my head. It was inside my heart: puncturing everything inside my chest. I heaved a deep sigh. I looked up and finally making its known tangibility, the pain reached my eyes. The crippling crunch of the fluttering leaves made it worse. It was a reminder that the world was still moving. Still making people live normal lives. It reminded me that nobody would feel the loss of the great man. It reminded me that the world didn’t care at all.

Nothing was normal anymore. It might be selfish of me to wish that the world might acknowledge a loss this time. My loss. After how many deaths this world witnessed, it didn’t give a care to any of them. Maybe this time it would. Maybe this time, it should.

Nobody was there to tell me that I should break my sentiment this time. He always said that caring is not an advantage. Screw that. I care for him. I loved him. I still do. Before I knew it, hot streaming waters flowed from my eyes warming my cold cheeks. I wish it could dampen the coldness inside me too. I wish that those warm tears could fill the emptiness of my heart. 

I huffed and wrapped myself tighter on the coat. The cold was seeping through my layer of clothes attacking my bare skin or was it that the cold finally found a way out of my body? That was something I wished to know but never would. 

I still remember the time when he faked his death. It was the first full blown hurt I experienced since I was shot. I know it was worse. The pain was eating me inside. It was making me cling for a false hope. It was making me illogical. I asked for one more miracle. I wished that he wasn’t dead but it didn’t happened. Not yet.

For two years, I went on with my life. Moved out of 221B was the first thing I did. That place was just too much. That place was just a full of memories hunting me. I was so lost. Then Mary came. I was so glad she came into my life. I was settling by then when he came back. My greeting was a punch. I punched him hard. Inspite of all this, I couldn’t ask for anything more. He was back. He was really back! He became the best man of my wedding. During the wedding, I knew something was wrong. Something was off. But I didn’t notice it. I was so blind. At the end of the event, I saw him sitting down at the back of the reception area. His shoulders was shaking. 

“Sherlock?” I said with the utmost concern. He was startled by my presence. Odd. The shaking stopped. He sniffed. He straightened his posture. His back still facing me. 

“What’s wrong?” I asked again. This time, I reached out. I touched his shoulder and he turned around. His eyes. His eyes were red. His nose was red too. It was rare for Sherlock to be seen exhibiting emotions. It was making it harder for me to look at him like this. 

“Have you been crying?” I stuttered as the lump in my throat disappeared. 

“No. Sentiments are for the weak.” He said with his nasal aching cold voice. He couldn’t lie to me. Not this time. 

“Don’t lie to me. You know, you are a proper genius on cases but a daft when it is with emotions.” I explained. I touched his other shoulder with my arm. He straightened his posture even more. 

“Don’t try to intimidate me with your height, Sherlock.” I grinned bitterly. This man really was unbelievable. “Come on. Tell me what is wrong.” a moment of silence passed.

“John.” he whispered. “Please. Don’t leave me.” It was not a command. It was a request. A request from Sherlock bloody Holmes. 

“What are you talking about, Sher-” 

“Please John. I don’t want to be alone again.” he begged. His voice finally quivered. Then in an instant, I remembered what he said when he jumped off. The only time he begged like this was when he was dying.

Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please would you do this for me.

The world stopped moving.

I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t even make any move. I closed my eyes and sighed. 

“Please.” he whispered. When I opened my eyes, his blue green eyes are flowing with tears. It was unusual for me to see him like this. I didn’t want to see him cry. Not ever in my life would I want to see him cry. 

“Sherlock. I won’t leave you.” I started with my heart promising to him. “I won’t.”

“Promise me, John! Please.” he begged again. It was so heartbreaking to see him like this. It was unrealistic but it was there.

“Yes, Sherlock. I won’t leave you. We’ll be here for you. Mary and I. You won’t be alone.”   
He smiled a bit then wiped his tears with his fingers. He nodded and motioned me inside the hall. Before I could go inside, I saw him slip a bottle of pills inside his pockets. He walked normally but with a great wince on every step. That was the first moment the clues were beginning to map out.

Mary and I moved into a house near Baker Street. I usually visited him often. I made sure he was eating properly and just for pure entertainment, I always bring my dog with me. Gladstone, my dog, was being killed by chemicals approximately 10 times in five hours thanks to Sherlock’s experiment. He was smiling a bit more usual when I was visiting but there were those times when there would be no one inside the flat. When everywhere was so dark. Sherlock’s daily rants weren’t there to greet me. Solitude silence and unfathomable darkness were there. Those times that I should’ve foreseen. I should’ve known. I was a Doctor after all.

When Mary died, I moved in with him again. The excruciating pain of being abandoned by your wife and your child was so overwhelming that I was plunged into depression. Thanks to Sherlock, I was tangled to his job one again. I was never bored. Though the memories of pain was there, I moved on with my life. It didn’t stop me from running around London chasing criminals. When I thought I have found my place once again on Sherlock’s side, another tragedy was looming close. This time, it was the worst. The times when I should’ve deduced something from all of those signs. 

He was going out alone more often. I thought it was a great improvement on him. I thought he was handling a case. I was wrong.

I started to explore the flat out of sheer boredom when he went out one time. I was rummaging through the pile of papers on the sitting area when I found a letter addressed to Sherlock. It was opened and crumpled. My immediate doctor’s instinct kicked in. I recognize the handwriting well. It was Sarah’s. I read the content. 

The whistling of the teapot inside the kitchen didn’t even stopped me from reading the content of the letter. It was-It was about- death. 

Sherlock, as a friend of yours, Please tell John that you only have four months to live. I beg you. 

The whistling teapot was a distant sound. The rumble of vehicles outside the flat was so far. The static sound of the television was but a faint background. All I could hear loud was the beating of my own heart. Beating in fast paced. Running like I was engaging in a marathon. What was I chasing in the marathon? Life of Sherlock? 

Trying harder to pump blood faster on my paling face. I- This was a joke. This was a bluff. I was wrong again. I dashed into his room and tried to pry further. I knew it was wrong but I am his flatmate. I care for him. When I found a bottle of pills and some handkerchief with blood stain on it, my confirmation was confirmed. He was dying. Dying without even me knowing. My head was beginning to get fuzzy. My stomach was churning and turning. 

How could I be so blind? 

Four months? The letter was dated three months ago! When was he going to tell me? Then it struck me. The pills at the wedding. The limping. The cases of darkness. The excessive sleeping. The need to finish everything at the shortest time available. The conversation. Why was I so blind? I needed to get back those times. My blinded times. I needed to get those back. If only I could.   
My whole body was numbing by the sheer shock of being alone. Of being left behind by the only man I treated as a bestfriend. 

I got up and turned off the stove. My hunger and my urge to drink tea was gone. Immediately after, my knees gave in. I sat on the chair near the table. I waited for him to arrive. I waited for him to come home. The clock ticked loudly. It was mocking me. I stormed near it and punched the wall clock. My knuckles was covered with shards of glass but I didn’t care. It wasn’t enough to balance the feelings I have inside. It wasn’t enough to compensate my stupidity and obliviousness. All this time, I was given signs. All this time, I have been so blind. He was dying. My best friend was dying. 

I could do nothing.

I was furious with myself. Right now, I needed to clean this. I need to talk to him about this. I should at least compensate the time lost and regain the moments. 

It was already six in the evening when he came back. He went rigid when he saw me sitting on my chair looking through the window. I wasn’t watching. I was listening to every sound of a very distant London. I didn’t know what to say at first. I didn’t want to tell him that I know he was dying already and I was letting him die. He took his coat off and hanged it on the stand. He went straight for his chair and sat down in front of me. His face was deadly pale. Paler than usual. 

“First of, it is not your fault. I wanted it to remain a secret.” he stated with his monotonous voice. “I know you are a Doctor but it is up to the patient to choose whether to extend their lives or not.”

“I should have known, Sherlock.” I answered while closing my eyes and rubbing my temples with my shaking hands. “All the signs. It was pointing that way. I ignored it. I let you die, Sherlock.” 

“No. You aren’t. I am not dying. I am living with a limited time.” he explained. “I always know I would die younger than everyone.”

Silence followed. I wanted to ask him many questions.

“You’ve got questions. Ask me about it.” he asked in his most cold voice. He was like talking to one of his clients. Have this man been valuing his life? Something snapped inside me. 

“Don’t treat it like it’s just a case, Sherlock!” I shouted with the greatest intensity. HIs gaze on me didn’t falter. “This isn’t a case! Don’t talk to me like that! Don’t talk to me like you don’t care! You are-” I took a deep breath. “Dying and I can’t do anything about it.” I whispered the last few words. I felt so defeated. This man was my only friend. Only one I loved from the first time I saw him. 

“If you can’t do anything about it then why bother?” he answered with his face neutral. 

“That is not the point!” I shouted again. I shook my head and calmed myself. “I wanted you to live longer, Sherlock. You are my bestfriend. Please.” I closed my eyes and shook my head again. “Please, don’t do this to me.” 

“John. Caring is not an advantage.” he whispered with the hint of least emotion on his voice. 

“It might be a disadvantage but it is the only thing I intend to do with the knowledge of being on the lower hand. I care for you, Sherlock.” I whispered. “Just please, Sherlock. Tell me what is going on.” 

A shuffle on the seat and he started. “Terminal Cancer. I was diagnosed the day after I jumped off the building. Molly told me this when he got some samples of my blood. I confided with Sarah few days after I returned here in London but made her promise that she wouldn’t tell you any single soul. I blackmailed her at first but she later on trusted me. She was supplying me my medicines and some morphines while I was away. The moment I was diagnosed, I knew my life was at risk of ending soon. 

“I tracked down Moriarty’s crime web to give you a safe life, John. I wanted to do that to ensure that you wouldn’t suffer the same fate as I am. My life was always in disarray, John. I dissolved the web and I came back. I wanted to tell you this before but you are going to get married already. I didn’t want to ruin your marriage. I didn’t want to.

“I was about to tell you again when you were settling down but then Mary died. I couldn’t add to the pain, John. I wouldn’t even dare to hurt you. I wouldn’t add the massive pain inside you already. I’m sorry, John.” he whispered. His voice was quivering. I opened my eyes and saw the same expression he wore during the night of my wedding. Pain. Hurt. Helplessness. 

And he say that caring is not an advantage? 

How could these sociopath be so caring for me? 

How could I have been so blind? 

I asked myself these questions. 

“Tell me, Sherlock.” I started. “The things you said at my wedding night, was that about this? The don’t leave me?” 

A simple nod came. I looked at him and touched his hands. He was really pale. Paler than the snow.

“How long?” I asked. 

“Two days. Including today.” He answered sniffing. He touched my hand too. It was cold. It’s like I’m looking at a corpse. 

“One day?!” I shouted. I could never believe that this man who was chasing criminals on London was fighting a cancer deep within him. I could never believe this man! I could never believe that he was going away! 

“I’m sorry, John.” he squeezed my hand. I looked at him. I shook my head. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” 

I looked away and gaze on the flat. This was the flat that Sherlock Holmes was living for many years already. It felt so wrong after few days from now. It would feel so wrong that I’d be living alone. 

It felt so wrong to be alone again. 

There was no point arguing on this now. 

“Can you move me to the sofa, John?” he asked me suddenly. I tore my gaze around and looked at him intently. He was wincing. “The pills weren’t working anymore. The morphine was only a back up.”

I nodded and helped him move into the sofa. I sat down first and settled his head unto my lap. His curly hair was already long. His eyes were as bright as before but with dark circles around them. He was skinnier, paler and even worse than the usual Sherlock. I stroked his head. I wiped the tear streaks from his cheeks. His beautiful shining blue green eyes. Those eyes will forever be closed.

“Why didn’t you let Mycroft give you the best treatment?” I asked while stroking his ears lovingly. 

“I don’t want him to see my dying slowly. He is my brother after all. Mummy is upset too. No mother would want to outlive her child. I’ll just have to do this on solitary confinement.” he explained. He winced and bit his lips. My brows furrowed. He twitched some more. He covered his mouth with his hands. He was muffling a scream now. 

“What’s wrong, Sherlock? Where does it hurt?” I supported him to sit down and get him lay back comfortably on the sofa. 

He was biting his lips so hard that tiny trickles of blood was flowing already. “Everywhere.” He said. 

“Do you have any medicine?” I asked. “Where is your medicine?” I started to panic. I looked around the flat anxiously. 

He gasped and clutched his thigh. “O-o-on t-the dr-drawer.” he gritted on his teeth. The muffled scream was released. I forced the drawer open. The morphine was there. All I could hear was his screaming voice echoing inside the flat. I yanked the cover out of it and gave him the liquid. My hands was trembling viciously. His breathing was ragged at first but then calmed. I was kneeling on the floor with my cheeks wet. I thought it was sweat alone but when I wiped it some were from my eyes When did I start to cry? I sat dismissively on the floor. It was I whose panting hard now. He was in pain physically. I was in pain emotionally.

“I’m sorry John.” he whimpered with his voice small. I smiled bitterly. He was looking at me with his eyes filled with sorrow. 

“And you say caring is not an advantage.” I answered. “Do you want to be here on the sofa or to your bed?” 

“On my bed, please.” he requested. Out of all the people Sherlock met, it was only me that could make him say please. I carried him in a bridal style. He was light. The disease was eating him already. He was so vulnerable. He was so light that somehow when I’d let him to go he’ll flutter slightly and land on the ground softly. But I didn’t want to let him go. I didn’t want him to go. 

When I settled him on the bed, I bent down and stroked his head once more. I stood up and was about to leave when we reached out and grabbed my hand. “Can you stay, please?” I hesitated at first. So this was the meaning of solitary confinement. Sherlock and I. Sherlock and John.

Ticking time reminded me that Sherlock&John would be no more. 

It would be John alone. John Watson. John. The lonely soldier from Afghanistan. 

I needed more time to feel the essence of Sherlock and John. I needed more time to be with him. 

I realized that I should give him all of my time. I should. I must and I needed to. I nodded. I sat on the bed near the end and held his hand tightly. 

His whole frame was so skinny. Vulnerable. I could never imagine that he was the same man I met years ago who was bouncing and prancing on crime scenes. I couldn’t believe that he was dying.

“Why were you going out often, Sherlock?” I asked him. 

He made a low groan and said “I was saying my goodbyes to my colleagues at St. Barts. Specially Molly. I also went to the Scotland Yard. I bid my goodbye to Lestrade, including Anderson and Donovan. Lestrade thought I was joking, I wasn’t. He was crying the moment I explained it to him fully. Even Donovan cried, calling me freak over and over again.” 

I smiled a bit when he smiled. I know him. He feel so loved right now. Even on his last moments, he finally felt so important. He finally felt the love he thought he didn’t deserve. I finally understood that somehow, this man was prepared. He was preparing himself to die. And that thought hurts me deeply. I was a soldier but I was never prepared to die. 

“What about Mrs. Hudson?” I asked again, this time a lump was growing inside my throat. 

“I told her first, John. She cried and hugged me so tightly. I was arranging the papers actually.” he answered his eyes still close. 

“What papers?” 

He smiled though his eyes was closed. “I bought you the flat, John.” 

My heart squeezed tightly right now, That was a surprise. “Why?” I asked curiously. 

“So that you’ll have a place to live in.” He opened his eyes weakly and he looked at me. 

I held his hand tighter. I shifted lightly to have a leverage on the headboard. “221B Baker Street is not the same without you.” I whispered.

My tears fell once more. I let myself wallow with it. Pain. Pain Again. Sadness. Aloneness. Hopeless, Helpless. 

John. No more Sherlock. 

He smiled bitterly. “Tomorrow, can you stay with me? I’ll talk to Sarah if you want. Can you please just stay with me?” he begged. “I’m scared, John. I don’t want to be alone.”

I nodded and sniffed. “I’ll stay by your side Sherlock. I promise.” 

“Good. That is good.” He sighed. “I’m going to sleep. stay if you want.” 

I watched him as his breaths became even. I stroked his face. Memorizing every feature. Memorizing every flaw. Sure, he wasn’t the old Sherlock but he was still Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes: The Consulting Detective. I wanted to keep him away from the soil. I wanted to keep him alive, I wanted to keep him safe by my side. But what could a man do when death was looming nearer to someone he greatly value? He fell into a deep slumber and so was I. I fell asleep fearing the upcoming sunrise. The only sunrise that didn’t signify hope. The sunrise that signifies a fallen soul’s departure. The next sunrise, everything would be gone. Everything would be so colorless. I’d be alone again. This time it was for real. 

The sun was shining brightly that day. It pissed me off. Why was the sky so radiant? I stood up and contemplate on shutting the blinds. Good thing it clouded moments later.

“Sherlock.” I whispered. “Time to wake up.” He stirred and open his eyes painfully.   
“John. I’m bored.” he stated while rubbing his eyes. I smirked and stood up. “Of course you are bored you bloody git!” 

He chuckled and smiled. I smiled back at him. He was showing emotions right now. He was savouring his moment. I was smiling, No, grinning at him. It felt normal to be like this with Sherlock. Bickering and bantering about many things but somehow, it felt so unreal. This present would be gone so suddenly. Any moment it would turn into a past.

He mocked a groan and said “Must I get out of bed? My whole body was aching.” He waved a hand weakly. 

“I’ll bring in some toast. Want to eat some?” I called as I went out. I heard a faint yes and I dashed in the kitchen. I wouldn’t have any time wasted. Not this time. Not ever in this day or I’ll regret it. When I got back to the room, I was panting hard and I leaned on the door with my other hand. Sherlock was not in bed. 

“Sherlock!” I shouted. I panicked. I wouldn’t want to him out of sight. “Sherlock!!” I shouted again. This time, a distant voice answered inside the bathroom. I dashed out and found him leaning on the wall panting hard. He throwed up. “God, Sherlock!” I kneeled down and wrapped my arms around him. “Are you alright? How on earth did you sneak out of you room without me noticing?” I asked curiously sighing a relief. 

“You lack observation, John. You need to learn how to have it. You see but you don’t observe.” he mumbled into my shirt. “Water, John. I need water.” he ordered. I carried him and settled him inside the bed again. I went out quicker this time and gave him a glass of water.

“We should just curl up in here, you know.” he demanded and patted his side. 

“What about your brother?” I asked, nevertheless I settled on his side. 

“I talked to him few days ago. I picked my coffin. I picked my suit and I told him to bury my microscope with me.” he stated. He was so prepared. I held his body close to mine and comb his hair with my hand. A moment of silence descended and his eyes closed.

The whole day passed on getting enough sleep. Sherlock and I was getting into sleep more often. I heard him say once when I pleaded him to sleep that “I’ll have plenty of that later.”

We ate Thai curry at six. Sherlock ate almost all of it. 

“Do you remember what you told me years ago? About how alone protects me?” he asked weakly. Of course I knew that. My memory was expanded with Sherlock Holmes. 

Nevertheless, I still asked. “What is it?”

“I am wrong John. You are right. Alone doesn’t protects me. Friends are. Or more accurately, friend.” he answered. 

“But I couldn’t protect you from all of this ‘Lock. I’m sorry.” I apologized. A hum was his response. 

When the clock strikes seven at night, Sherlock stirred and sat leaning on the headboard. His hair was dishevelled. His whole face was pale. His eyes was dying but still bright making the contrast of his pale face stronger. His cheekbones are sharper. His lips was white. I wanted to sob on him but kept my strong mask on. 

“John, can you read me a story?” he asked. “And thank you for the dinner.” he smiled. I sighed and smiled at him adoringly. “Shall I get one of your cold cases?” I asked. 

“No. Don’t want that.” he shook his head lightly. “Read me the story of how we first met.”

I froze on his side. What was he planning? “If I’ll read to you, I’ll have to leave.” I protested. Sherlock chuckled. He was smiling now. “Then just tell me about any story then.” 

“Okay.” I cleared my throat. “There once was a boy named Sherlock Holmes whose ego was so big it was beginning to burst.” 

“Oi..” Sherlock protested weakly. “My ego wasn’t that big.” 

I laughed and continued to tell the story. I told him the story about my life and his own life. How we met. I reminded him of all the cases we had. I wanted him not to forget that he was the best person I’ve ever met. I wanted him to feel so important. I wanted him to feel that he wasn’t a freak. He was more than all those people were saying. He was Sherlock Holmes. He was MY Sherlock Holmes.

The clock struck ten at night. It started. His ordeal took its toll. The pain hit him so hard. He screamed. He sweated furiously. He was crying. “Make it stop!” He shouted. Hissing, Cursing. “Please, John! KILL ME NOW!” he pleaded. He was thrashing on the bed. “MAKE IT STOP!! JOHN!” For straight one hour, he was begging me. I watched him writhe in pain. I couldn’t do anything more than to watch. “JOHN!” he shouted. I held my breath on every shout he made. I held him so close. I held his hands and arm and everything about him tightly. I didn’t want to even blink. I fear that the most fearsome thing would happen when I’d blink. Then at 11:05, the pain subsided. He was numbed. He was limped on my arms. I was supporting him now. I was holding him. 

“Why did you punched the clock?” he asked. 

“Because it’s mocking me. Sherlock.” I simply answered.

“Why?”

“It is reminding me that time is limited. I lost so many time already.” I explained. 

“ No, you didn’t.” He slurred. “Isn’t that what people do? They say they value time but spent all days working instead of actually making every minute a memory to cherish. But I guess I was one of them too. But you are not John. You are never dull.”

Silence followed. 

“John, wear a black suit on my funeral, okay?” he requested. Why was he telling me this? Why was he trying to let me burst into tears? Lump on my throat. Hitched my breath. Pain and squeezing of my chest. Stinging pain inside my eyes. Coldness of tha air. Fuzziness everywhere. 

John and Sherlock would be over soon. 

Sherlock. Sherlock would leave me. No. Sherlock. Sherlock. Stop. Don’t leave the lonely soldier. Don’t leave me, Sherlock. Please. 

Please. 

My tears were flowing freely now. It wouldn’t stop. 

“Sherlock, please. Don’t leave me.” I was begging, I was silently hoping. I didn’t want to be the known only as John. I didn’t want to be John without Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, Please.” He shook his head.

I don’t want to be alone. 

He burrowed his head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, John.” He mumbled. He choked. 

“Please, Sherlock. Don’t do this. Please don’t leave me.” I hugged him tightly. No. Please, Don’t take him. Please. Please. Just give us more time. Just few more days. Please. Please.

“John, don’t beg for me. When it’ll be over, I promise, I’ll watch over you. I don’t believe in angels but I believe that I’ll guide you.” he said with his voice soft. 

I shook my head. “I was so alone, Sherlock. I owe you so much.” 

“And I owe you too, John. You made me feel I’m loved.” he explained. 

Fifteen minutes before 12 midnight, silence was deafening now. 

“Sherlock, please.” 

“Shh. Quiet John. I have been thinking, Can you please make me an epitaph with engraving of ‘Dr. John H. Watson’s Best friend and Best man’?” he asked again. His voice becoming distant. Further. Further. Catch it before it will fly away. But it had flyed away. It had been drifting further and further from my reach. The voice slipped from my hands. The person slipped from my life. I couldn’t get him back. 

Not anymore

Far. Softer. Faint. Distinctly Dying. This voice. This voice which I loved will cease to be heard. It’ll cease to exist. 

I nodded and held him closer. 

Only five minute before 12:00. 

“John?” Sherlock called. 

“Yes?” I answered. 

“Thank you for everything.” 

“You are always welcome, Sherlock.”

“My sentiments are overwhelming.” 

“Quiet, Sherlock.” I kissed his forehead. He was sweating furiously before. Now, he was cold.. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No, John. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

I tightened my grip around him.

“John?” 

“Yes, Sherlock?” 

“I’m going to sleep now.” The lump inside my throat was there again. I blinked slowly this time. My heart thumped as I heard his words. Please. Please.  
But I knew it was hopeless.   
It was happening. I was going to be alone. I know I wouldn’t be alone literally. I knew that fact. But I’d be alone from Sherlock Holmes. He was my other half. My consulting detective. That was why we were being called John and Sherlock, wasn’t it? 

John and Sherlock.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” Finally kissing his forehead. Somewhere deep inside me was hoping that this set up was a fake. That this whole cancer was not real. I was hoping he’ll say April Fools. It was not. It was really happening. It was valid, He was dying. I couldn’t do anything to help him. I watched him die helpless. I was a Doctor. My purpose why I became one was to help people. To extend their lives longer. This purpose was in vain. I failed as a Doctor. Everyday, I was helping strangers extend their mortality rate. Everyday, I was treating them to have long lives but I couldn’t do anything with Sherlock’s. The pain was his but the loss was mine. 

“Goodnight, John” He closed his eyes very slowly. Slowly closing. His breathing began to even. I watched him. I felt him. 

Then it stopped. 

The clock at the sitting room chimed at 12:00. I sat there listening to the slow chiming. His whole weight was leaned on me. I burst into new set of tears as I wept beside him. His whole body was turning cold. Sherlock Holmes was dead. My bestfriend. My Best Man. My life. I took his hand and tried to find a pulse. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t there anymore. 

“Sherlock.” I called out. I shook him. Nothing happened. “Sherlock.” I called out again. Nothing. 

“Please, Sherlock.” My cheeks were wet. It was soaked in an amount tears. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything. I’m sorry.” I was shaking his body but he didn’t wake up. He didn’t even stir anymore. He wasn’t breathing. There was no pulse. 

“Sherlock.”I whispered.

John and Sherlock no more. It wasn’t there anymore. 

It was only John. 

John. 

I was staring at the opened window on the street. It was dark, yet it still have the glints of white stuff outside. It was snowing. It was Christmas. 

__

Mycroft came inside the room with his eyes red. He was obviously crying. I was watching the snow fall outside with a Sherlock on my arms. It was Christmas and I lost my best friend. I was cradling him wondering when he would wake up. 

“John.” Mycroft’s strained voice called me. “We need to get him to the morgue.” 

“Just few more minutes, Mycroft. Please.” I asked him. Begged him. His lips tightened and nodded. Was it too selfish for me to take him away from Mycroft longer? Was it too selfish for me to be grieving alone for the moment? If being selfish was the term then I was the most selfish bastard ever graced the life of Sherlock. I wanted him longer. I wanted him closer. I wanted to spend at least quite some time with him at Christmas. 

“Only few minutes.” I whispered. I was exhausted. It was done. 

John. I am John Hamish Watson. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. The Blogger of the only Consulting Detective of the world. I was the only one. Now I was alone too. 

He went out of the room and the deafening silence was once again inhabited the room. 

I closed our gaps and whispered “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.” Hoping that he could hear me. Hoping the he’ll be alright. I saw his sleeping face and then it struck me. 

He was smiling. The crinkle on the corner of his eyes. The curve on his lips. This man died smiling. He wasn’t defeated by death. He conquered it by being prepared. This man surely didn’t want to lose. 

I smiled through my tears. “You daft git. Happy Christmas.”   
__  
So here I was. Facing his grave. It was January 1st. Instead of celebrating a happy new year, I am on the cemetery on a cold winter afternoon. I’m wearing a black suit as per requested by him. The epitaphs of Mary and Sherlock were beside each other. 

Sherlock Holmes

“Doctor John H. Watson’s Best friend and Best Man.” 

The world’s famous and former consulting detective

 

The reality struck me. It didn’t matter if the world grieve about him. It didn’t matter if strangers knew him. Sherlock wasn’t like that. He didn’t care about fame. What matter was that people who truly cared for him were there to acknowledge not his death but his great life. He had witnesses to prove that he lived the life he wanted; that even on the briefest moment, he found his place on this big world. The world could continue to turn and adjust to him gone but not all of us. That’s what matter. A few real are greater than many bluffs. True, I’d still grieve for him but that was the concrete proof that he didn’t just survive this world. He lived a life enough to live a mark forever engraved through each and everyone of us who valued him. To Sherlock, it was enough.

I smiled at him through the tears again. I wiped it away and walked towards Mrs. Hudson. We hailed a cab and went to an empty 221B.   
__

When I got home, the first thing I did was to clean the flat. I stacked Sherlock’s files neatly on one corner. I preserved his experiments. I was cleaning the chimney when I saw a letter underneath the skull. I opened it and it read: 

Dearest John,

When you are reading this, I might be gone already. Don’t worry. I’m safe now. No more pain. No more Morphines. No more hurt. No more throwing up. What I worry is about you. 

When I left you during those three years, you fell into a pit of depression. What more with me going away permanently? I want you to have a normal life. Sarah said that I should let you know that it is fine to tell you to live a normal but if you date her again, I swear on my grave John, I’ll haunt you.

Live a good life John. You are only 40 (And I’m 37). That is too young. Or is it to old? Nevermind that. My point is, be a good person. I know you are a good person John but please do keep in mind that you are a soldier. You kill people which is contrary to your job as a doctor. 

John, Happy Christmas. I’m sorry if you have to witness my death. I trust you. I feel I’m obliged to give you something in return. Sorry about me being so weak about this time. As per one author once said, That is the thing about pain. It demands to be felt. I need to feel it John or else when my body couldn’t contain it anymore, I might burst and the intensity will be greater. I’m sorry for dragging you into this, John. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have to endure the loss. 

John, it will always be John and Sherlock or Sherlock and John. Never Sherlock alone. Never John alone. 

Life is for the living so live it or better off dead.

Happy New Year John. Don’t punch anymore clock. Though I find it quite sexy if you do that. 

Be careful. I’ll be waiting. I know you already prepared your grave. 

Sherlock Holmes

John! Look at mantle -SH

I struggled to find the gift he was referring to. I found a small little box. I opened it and found pictures. Pictures of us on crime scene and on dinners. There was this one picture I loved the most. The picture of us on my wedding day. I looked at him adoringly on his white tuxedo with a rose. I was also there standing with him. He was smiling. Not the force one. The natural one. On the back was a scribbling:

Will you miss me when I’m gone, John? -SH

I felt tears pricking into my eyes. I put the box down and held the picture close to my chest. Near to my heart. My beating heart.

“Sherlock Holmes: The sentimental drama queen.” I mumbled. I closed my eyes and whispered,

I do, Sherlock. I miss you. I always will. I’ll always have.

I do. 

Sherlock.

I do. 

I’m coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> Any suggestion?


End file.
